The Lafayette Campaign: a Tale of Deception and Elections (Frank Adversego Thrillers Book 2)

by Updegrove, Andrew

  The Return of the Native

  Frank walked into his apartment and paused. Leaving aside his zombie-like return in the wee hours of the morning, it had been weeks since he last walked through his own front door. The time away, plus the morning he’d just spent in Grover’s apartment, allowed him to see his own disheveled man-cave more objectively than usual.

  The picture did not please him. It brought to mind a variety of adjectives, none of which was complimentary. At the head of the list were “cluttered,” “worn-out,” “messy” and “cheap.”

  He grunted and headed for the kitchen, and concluded that the same set of adjectives would apply there as well, abetted by “unsanitary” and “malodorous.” Opening the refrigerator, he stared at the contents for longer than was necessary, given that all it contained was a half-full jar of pickles, the standard assemblage of ketchup, mustard and mayonnaise, three bottles of beer, and an ancient quart of milk. The sides of the milk container were so swollen it seemed likely the contents might reach critical mass at any moment.

  Frowning, he removed a beer and set about opening and closing the few cabinets the tiny kitchen contained, peering blankly at their equally sparse contents: an unopened box of plastic knives, forks and spoons, six cans of soup (various), a box of crackers (stale), a blue silo full of salt. He should put together a shopping list. Maybe tomorrow.

  Opening the beer, he moved on to the relative comfort of the one upholstered chair in his living room. Flopping down, he stared around the room, frowned again, and ruminated on what he was looking at. How long ago was it, exactly, since he and his wife had separated? Twenty years, close enough.

  The furniture, some bought used and the rest inexpensively, looked shabby and sad, hard-used and poorly maintained. Almost nothing adorned the walls, but there were plenty of things on the desk, window sills and floor – stacks of CDs and books, Amazon boxes that had found their way behind chairs rather than into the recycling bin, old magazines, unopened mail. He began drumming his fingers, and then checked the time on his mobile phone: 3:10. What would he do for the rest of the day?

  The mobile phone rang. Brightening up, he saw that it was his daughter, Marla, a grad student at Georgetown University.

  “Hey kid! How are you?”

  “Great, Dad. Where exactly are you now?”

  He felt a pang of conscience; heading back to Washington so suddenly, he hadn’t thought to call ahead to let her know he was on his way home.

  “Ah, well, I’m actually back in town – yes, D.C. – got back real late last night. I hadn’t been planning on it, but decided a couple days ago to drive back to meet my co-author.”

  “Co-author? Sounds like I’ve got some catching up to do. What else have you been up to?”

  Where to begin? He’d rarely been in touch while he was sussing out the hijinks of hitchhikers and hackers.

  “Oh, not a whole lot. Maybe we can get together when you’re free? I’d love to see you.”

  “How about tonight? I’m desperate for an excuse not to study for an exam. Meet me at Sissy’s at 7:00? It’s on 18th Street in Adams Morgan.”

  Why not, Frank thought, staring at his dump of an apartment. What else did he have to do?

  * * *

  “So that’s where things stand. This guy Grover is supposed to pitch me a few chapters by next Wednesday, and I’ll see how I like them.”

  “Sounds like a good development, if you’re not getting anywhere on your own. But if you weren’t writing while you were out west, what exactly were you up to all that time?”

  “Oh, well, you know, there was a lot of driving, and I did try to write – did lots of research – you know how it is.” He paused uncomfortably. He wasn’t used to keeping anything from his daughter, and she had been his main confidante during the saga he was now trying to describe in print.

  She looked at him sideways. “You just sat around in your camper all that time doing nothing but researching and not writing? Right. You would have been climbing the walls in two days. And don’t think I didn’t notice you’ve lost weight – have you been sick?”

  “No! As a matter of fact, I’ll have you know I’ve been getting myself back in shape. I’m running a few miles almost every morning, and watching what I eat, too.”

  “You? That’s really great, but, I mean, you? What on earth brought that on? I don’t recall you ever exercising or eating anything healthy in your life.”

  Marla paused and glanced up. Someone she didn’t know had just appeared by their table and was looking at her with a quizzical and somewhat critical look on her face.

  “Can I help you?” Marla asked.

  Frank turned and stood up immediately. “Josette! Great to see you! I didn’t realize you were coming back to Washington already.”

  Marla’s face progressed rapidly from surprise to uncertainty, before settling decisively on mischief.

  Her father was still standing by the table, now at a loss for words. Almost in unison, Josette and Marla said, “Aren’t you going to introduce me?”

  “Sure – of course! Josette, this is my daughter, Marla, and Marla, this is… Josette.”

  Josette frowned and crossed her arms; Marla crossed hers as well, but with evident delight. She was in no hurry to help her father escape from what was obviously an uncomfortable situation.

  “Your daughter, Frank?”

  “Yes, of course. Marla’s a grad student here at Georgetown.”

  He turned to Marla with eyes pleading for help.

  She relented, her curiosity getting the best of her. Who was this attractive, evidently French young woman? And more to the point, how did she know her father? Marla was also getting a twinge of realization that maybe there was a limit to how much she might want to know.

  “Hi, I’m pleased to meet you. Why don’t you sit down and join us.”

  “That’s a great idea!” Frank said, immediately doubting that it was. “Why don’t I get you something to drink?”

  “Well, perhaps,” Josette said. “I was expecting to meet friends, but they just texted to say that they will be very late. Frank, a pinot grigio would be very nice, thank you.”

  Frank started towards the bar. His first instinct had been to flee, since he hadn’t yet mentioned Josette to Marla. With the two now alone at the table, though, he was regretting his offer.

  It seemed like forever before the bartender acknowledged his existence. Frank tried to keep an eye on his table all the while, but the growing crowd made that difficult. When at last he returned to the table, Marla and Josette were laughing and chattering like jaybirds. Worse, they were doing so in French.

  He set the glass of wine in front of Josette, who acknowledged it with the briefest of smiles. He knew barely a word of French, and was feeling completely lost until annoyance took over. How long were they going to ignore him? When he realized he was drumming his fingers on the table, he put his hands in his lap and leaned back, frowning. When he caught himself drumming the table again after taking a sip of his drink, he stuffed both hands in his pockets.

  What could they be talking about? And worse yet, what could be making them laugh so much?

  After a particularly explosive burst of laughter he finally interrupted. “‘Allo! ‘Allo! Pardon mois, or whatever − remember me?”

  Josette, still giggling, put her hand on his arm.

  “Oh! You are right! We have been very rude. But your daughter, she is so lovely, and we find that we have so much in common!”

  “Sorry Dad,” Marla added, giving him a knowing look. “But I’m hearing such fascinating things about your time out west. Who would have guessed from what you’ve just been telling me that you were having adventures?”

  Josette put her hand to her mouth. “Oh! Perhaps I have been speaking too much! Frank – have I been telli
ng Marla things I should not have?”

  Frank had no way to tell, but fervently hoped that the answer was “no.”

  “Well, given that I don’t speak French, how can I tell?”

  “Perhaps I should leave you two alone for a few minutes so you can figure that out,” Marla said, standing up. Once she was behind Josette, she gave her father an exaggerated wink before walking away.

  Frank’s ears were burning furiously. “Well, you two certainly seem to have hit it off.”

  “Hit it off?’ I suppose that means we get along? Yes indeed – I like your daughter very much. But she is so very different from you!”

  As usual, Josette had succeeded in knocking him off balance with the merest handful of words. For once she noticed.

  “Oh! But of course you are very sweet, too.”

  Frank wasn’t sure that “sweet” was what he was looking for and moved on.

  “So what are these ‘adventures’ you’ve been telling Marla I’ve been having? Did you tell her about the hackers and everything?”

  “Oh, no! I did not know whether I should or should not, so of course – no. But I did tell her how we met on the road, and how you helped me when my bicycle was damaged.”

  “I don’t suppose you mentioned that you wrecked it yourself?”

  “No! Of course not! How could I explain that without explaining everything?”

  “What about Iowa? Did you mention that we ran into each other again?”

  “No, not Iowa. Just Nevada. Up until you moved on and I stayed with my brother and his friends.”

  “Your brother? I thought that was your boyfriend?”

  She laughed. “Oh no – of course not. But he is also my very dear friend, and we have always done much together.”

  “Then what else were you and Marla yakking about for so long? And what was so funny?”

  “Oh, I do not know, just one thing and another – ‘girl talk’ I believe you call it?”

  He would have pursued the question, but he saw Marla returning with a drink for each of them. The noise level around them had risen, and Frank saw that a band had arrived and was starting to do a sound check. They all leaned in closer to hear.

  Marla settled her chin on her hand, elbow on the table. “So, are you two all caught up?”

  “Just starting,” Frank said, giving her a dirty look. “I expect that you and Josette are more in the know right now than I am.”

  “Oh Frank!” Josette hushed him. “Anyone would think you believe we’d been talking about you this whole time!”

  Marla tried not to laugh, but not hard enough to prevent her father from seeing she knew this was exactly what he believed.

  To his considerable relief, the band began playing in earnest, making it almost impossible to hold a conversation. As people began to move onto the dance floor, Josette leaned very close to Frank.

  “It is so hard to hear; this is not so much a talking place later in the evening. Do you mind if I dance?”

  “No, no – of course not. I’m afraid that I don’t dance, though,” he said, offering an understatement monumental in its proportions.

  Josette just laughed, and then looked at Marla, inclining her head towards the band and raising her eyebrows.

  Marla gave a thumbs up, and followed her onto the dance floor.

  Frank watched with surprise as they blended into the gyrating scrum of bodies filling the space between his table and the band. He was even more surprised when he realized that everyone else on the dance floor was also female. Over the last hour, the varied, after-work group of patrons had gradually transitioned to a clubbing crowd. Only then did it dawn on him that for the first time in his life he was sitting in a lesbian bar.

  Curiosity and discomfort competed for his attention until he also realized that he was almost the only male in the bar. Pure discomfort prevailed after that, as he wondered whether people would think he was some creep that wandered in off the street to stare. He found that his mobile phone suddenly become enormously absorbing. When at last the band finished its long, initial jam he tried to catch Marla’s attention with a “save me!” look.

  Almost immediately, the band swung back into action, and Frank watched as four young women, presumably the friends Josette had planned on meeting, merged into the crowd and greeted her. She turned to wave and mouth a goodbye to Frank as she returned to dancing.

  Marla rejoined him and sipped her drink as she checked out the now-full barroom. The band had cranked it up several notches, and Josette was embracing the mood, her arms writhing above her head. When her eyes met those of one of her friends, it seemed to Frank that they gyrated closer until there was barely an inch between them.

  “Shall we move on?” It was Marla, yelling into his ear. He nodded in agreement.

  Soon they were outside in the brisk air, walking towards Dupont Circle as couples and groups, mostly of one gender or the other, pushed past them in the opposite direction. He drew a deep breath of fresh air and tried to make sense of what he had absorbed over the last hour. It had been almost no time from the moment he learned that Josette’s “boyfriend” was in fact her brother until he began to conclude that the concept of a boyfriend might not be part of her makeup at all.

  Marla’s voice intruded once more into his thoughts.

  “So, how’d you like the club?”

  “It was okay, I guess. I know it will amaze you to learn this, but I don’t get out all that much. I can’t even remember the last time I was in this neighborhood at night.”

  “Yeah, well, neighborhoods change, don’t they? I thought it was pretty cool, myself. I’ve been meaning to give it a try for weeks. I’ll have to come back to dance there again.”

  “I thought you played on the other team?”

  She laughed. “Oh, don’t show your age so much. I’ve got lots of gay and lesbian friends. And anyway, their clubs are a lot more fun than the straight ones. Anyway, what do you think of Josette? She doesn’t seem like your type.”

  “What do you mean, ‘my type?’ All I did was give her a lift when she needed one.”

  Marla gave him a wink. “Oh, you know, just asking.”

  “For Pete’s sake! I’m old enough to be her father.”

  “Oh come on. She’s 29.”

  “How do you know that?”

  “Well, duh? How would I know that? She mentioned it while we were talking about what we were each doing in grad school. She worked for a while before going back for another degree. How old did you think she was?”

  “I don’t know – I’m not very good with ages. And anyway, I don’t spend a lot of time around young people.”

  “Puh-leeze – you talk like you’re in a rest home already. Anyway, I was just curious. She meets the half plus seven rule, and she seemed a little proprietary when we met.”

  “The what?”

  “Half the guy’s age plus seven. If the girl’s that age or older, it’s not creepy.”

  “So you’re telling me there’s a rule that defines the boundary between healthy interest and dirty old manhood?”

  “Dad, there’s a rule for everything. Anyway, why don’t you level with me? What were you really doing out west for so long? I can’t believe you were just pulling your hair out, despite the evidence to the contrary.”

  “What do you mean by that crack?”

  “Well, you know, you are getting kind of thin up there.”

  Frank stopped, stunned, and searched for his reflection in the window of a store. Everything looked intact to him.

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about, and I don’t know why you’d want to say a thing like that, anyway.”

  “But Dad, you know, you are. Here – give me your hand.” She held it up over the back of his head, and placed his fing
ers in the middle of what was undeniably a bald spot. He was speechless and visibly aghast.

  Marla put a reassuring arm around his waist. “I just assumed you knew – your hair’s been thinning back there for years. Look – there’s a drugstore there on that corner. Let’s pick you up some Minoxidil. It’s supposed to work pretty well – they claim it can even make hair grow back.”

  Frank blindly followed her down the street and into the store. He found the proper aisle, and picked up a box of the store brand hair restorer. Part way to the checkout aisle he stopped, turned around, and roamed around until he found a hand-held mirror.

  They spoke of one thing or another as Frank walked Marla home, but he was distracted by too many thoughts on too many topics to be much of a conversationalist. When they reached her door, she wished him luck with his book, gave him a big hug, and went inside.

  He didn’t need to look at his watch to know it must be late. Should he take the Metro or hail a cab? He thought of his cluttered apartment, his empty refrigerator, and his too-vacant life, and then started walking, his bagged box of hair-restorer bumping his leg with every stride.

  * * *

  28

  Pulp Friction

  Dick Fetters sat in his study, clicking through email and polling reports on his computer as he waited for the evening news to begin on the muted television across the room. He’d spent a ton of Barbash’s money over the past two weeks on many fronts – publicists, social media flacks, advertising – the whole gamut of influence garnering techniques. This would be a make or break week in the primary campaign, and each of his efforts had to pay off or the whole strategy would be in jeopardy. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the network logo pop up on his TV. He reached for the remote to unmute the sound.

  It had been quite an active day both domestically and internationally; the opening voiceover by the POX News anchor indicated that there would be no campaign news until the end of the broadcast. Well, that was okay. For now, it was what was going on in the trenches in New Hampshire that really mattered. He turned the sound lower and left the room to top off his drink.